


Breaking Point

by Wuchel



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 13:18:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2548925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wuchel/pseuds/Wuchel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a breaking point, and Harold Finch might just find out his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the second half of Season 3, but before the entire Samaritan storyline. 
> 
>  
> 
>  **Acknowledgements:** Thanks to _scully1138_ for her amazing beta-work. And to _BullDemon_ for her encouraging words. I wasn't going to post this story, but she kindly insisted that I did.

"Move." 

There was no time for John Reese to actually even attempt to start moving before he was shoved in the back none too gently. He stumbled, and almost lost his footing since he couldn't use his arms to balance out his movements. The zip-ties keeping his arms locked behind his back cut into his flesh as he struggled not to fall. In the end all that prevented him from an undignified tumble was the cold, solid metal of the shipping container to his left. 

There were thousands of them at the dock - forming a giant, metallic, man-made maze in which John had led his pursuers in hopes of losing them. He had, however, grossly underestimated their home-turf advantage. They knew their way around. He didn't. That's why he had walked right into their trap. Or more accurately into the man with the metal pipe. 

John was pretty sure he could thank his years of training and the reflexes they had instilled in him for the fact that his skull now only sported a profusely bleeding laceration and what promised to be one hell of bump, instead of having been cracked open by the vicious whack delivered to it by a guy who looked like he enjoyed spending all his free time at the gym. 

His instincts warned Reese of the metal object fast approaching from behind him a split-second before it connected with the base of his skull, and his immediately initiated evasive maneuver probably saved his life. But he hadn't been fast enough, and _Schwarzenegger_ managed to graze his temple with the pipe. The glancing blow still packed enough force to drop John like a stone. 

When he'd come to again his head was killing him and his vision was blurry and - while he was still stunned from the blow - he was just all too aware that he'd been disarmed and his hands had been tied behind his back. 

"We got one of them," a voice said somewhere above him, and Reese had almost sighed in relief. Apparently his diversion had worked and Finch had gotten away. That was all that mattered, and John would start contemplating what sort of trouble he was in as soon as the world stopped spinning and his stomach gave up on insisting on purging itself of its meager contents. 

He had been pulled roughly onto his feet, and physically motivated to move before he'd had a chance to figure out the rhythm to his swaying. Held somewhat upright by the hard surface of the container, John pressed his eyes closed to shut out the still gyrating world, and swallowed down the bile that burned in his throat. 

Definitely a concussion. He'd had enough of those to be sure. 

Hands clamped painfully around his upper arm, pulled him off the container and dragged him along. The ex-op would never admit it, but for the first couple of yards he was actually in need of the support. However by the time they reached the waterfront Reese had recovered enough to actually be contemplating trying to break free and make a run for it. The odds though, were not in his favor. Four to one - he being unarmed and with bound hands - while the other four most likely were armed to their teeth, and had no qualms about shooting him in the back. Besides, using the maze of containers as cover hadn't really worked out for him the last time, and in the absence of any alternative escape plans John figured his best option was to go with _wait and see_. 

He knew that backup was not an option at the moment as Shaw had been tasked with shadowing a second Number on his business trip upstate. Even if Finch had called her the second he got away it would still take her at least a couple of hours to get here. And Harold knew better than to send in Fusco on his own.

He and his merry little group of chaperones were greeted by an extremely pissed off looking Michael Mercer, and that in itself was indeed a very satisfying sight. John had felt an almost immediate dislike for the man the moment he had met Mercer two days prior, and since then his first impression had proven to be extremely accurate. The man was a murderous, egocentric son of a bitch with a more than slight sadistic streak. When Reese had to take Harold along for some midnight snooping at the offices of Mercer's small Import/Export enterprise he had not liked it. Not one bit. But when it came to firewalls, encrypted networks, sub-servers and such hullabaloo John just couldn't deny that it lay beyond his area of expertise.

He didn't know if he should laugh or smack his forehead against the wall, but in the end it had turned out that Harold's skills weren't needed. Mercer had been smart enough to keep the incriminating records purely as hard copy but dumb enough to lock them away in an easy-to-pick safe - at least for someone with John's training ... and his stash of explosives.

Unfortunately his method of safe-cracking attracted more unwanted attention than John had anticipated, which had let to his decision to split up, and to draw their pursuers away from Finch.

He was dragged toward the pissed off Mercer, who probably knew exactly what had been taken from his safe - one look would have been enough - and what sort of trouble he could be in if that file were to end up in the hands of the law. 

"You." Apparently the dislike had been mutual as Mercer regarded Reese with disdain, managing to make the single word sound like a slur. "Do you have it?" he asked one of his men, who shook his head. "No. He didn't have it on him."

"And the other guy?"

Mercer's men looked uncomfortably at each other, silently arguing out between themselves who should deliver the bad news until the same man - who had answered their boss's question before - shook his head again.

Mercer cursed, and kicked a grate beside him before getting into John's face. "Your friend has it, doesn't he?" The former CIA agent ignored him, pissing him off even more. He grabbed Reese by the lapel of his coat and pulled him so close their faces almost touched and the ex-op could smell Scotch on the other man's breath. "Where is he?" Mercer asked, his voice quiet yet strained with anger. "Where is the file?"

John's eyes slowly moved from a point somewhere in the distance to focus on the unshaven face in front of him, and he allowed a small smirk to creep onto his lips. "I don't know."

Mercer stared at him - his eyes burning into Reese's calm ones - and his breath grew more and more pronounced. Finally he let go of John with a push and an angry huff. Turning around he tore at his hair in frustration, just to spin back again with a roar and to use his momentum to deliver a surprise punch to Reese's face. Spinning with the punch - and without the use of his arms - John had a hard time keeping his balance. He stumbled backwards and the world was once more spinning like mad. 

Tasting blood in his mouth, Reese felt the telltale sting and pull of a split lip but didn't get any farther with cataloguing his growing collection of cuts and bruises as Mercer drove a fist into his unprotected stomach. The blow forced the air out of his lungs, causing his knees to buckle while his torso curled reflexively around the pain. 

Landing hard on his knees, John grunted in pain as his vision started to grey and the asphalt of the docks rushed up to meet his face. He lay there - dazed and panting - while the blood from the cut on his forehead dripped into his eyes. He expected a kick to his ribs or kidneys to follow any second now, but instead hands were patting him down and going through his pockets.

"There you go," said Mercer, as he pulled Reese's smartphone from within the folds of his coat. John had lost his earpiece when his head had made the acquaintances with the metal pipe. He wasn't entirely sure if the phone had automatically severed the connection to Finch's device when his earpiece had gotten out of range, but he certainly hoped so now. 

Reese rolled onto his side - still breathing heavily - and attempted to at least get back onto his knees while Mercer inspected his phone with his goons just looking on. They could at least give him a hand, John thought. 

"I'm sure you've got your buddy on speed-dial, don't you?" John shot the man a withering sideways glance, and spat out some blood on the pavement in front of him as an answer. The other man seemed to have reined in his anger, sounding almost pleasant. "Let's see ... _Call History_ ... sounds promising." Mercer gave John a speculative look, trying to gauge the other's reaction. Unbothered by Reese's lack of emotion he continued in a conversational tone, "You better tell your friend to get back here."

John looked at him with a steady gaze, and with quiet finality said, "No."

Mercer's eyebrow twitched, and Reese expected him to launch into a torrent of threats. But instead the man went back to inspecting his phone. "I see your phone's got a video streaming feature." He grinned. "Pictures do say more than a million words, don't they?"

He continued to manipulate the phone until the LED on its backside started to glow and exclaimed in triumph, "Ha! We're online."

He aimed the phone towards John, who winced and turned his head away from the bright light. "I've got your friend," Mercer said matter-of-factly. Refusing to look at the phone and its bright LED and camera, Reese kept stoically staring ahead across the dark water of the Upper Bay. Mercer motioned for one of his goons to take the phone, then pulled out a gun and aimed it at Reese's head. "I want that file back. You've got thirty seconds."

John heard the click as Mercer cocked the gun, briefly closed his eyes and exhaled. He should have tried to break free and make a run for it. The outcome would have probably been pretty much the same, but that way Finch wouldn't have been put into a situation where he had to stand by and watch.

"Twenty."

Looking across the still water of the Upper Bay, John took in the sight of the lights of Manhattan and Brooklyn, and their reflections on the dark surface. He even had a good view of the illuminated Lady Liberty farther up the bay. As last sights went, this was actually not a bad one. Beautiful even.

"Ten."

John wasn't afraid. He'd never really feared death, otherwise he wouldn't have been as good at what he did. There was a time when he would have actually welcomed death with open arms. He didn't believe in an afterlife, or the judging of souls. All death promised was an end to everything. An end to suffering and pain.

And also to contentment.

Now he wasn't really surprised that he actually felt some sort of remorse - he had failed Harold and his purpose. But then they had both known that it would end like this or in a similar way eventually.

Mercer was counting down the numbers aloud now, drawing nearer to the final number with inevitability. 

And John Reese was ready.

"Four ... Three ... Two ..."

_To be continued ..._


	2. Chapter 2

Finch was breathing heavily as he limped as fast as he could along the road. He felt completely out of place in this industrial area in his suit and hat. Mr. Reese had told him to stay off the main roads, and to call a cab as soon as he was far enough away. Now as Finch hobbled alongside a chain-link fence, more than winded from his mad dash, he realized that John had failed to specify what "far enough" was. Sweat was trickling down his back, and he was close to having a stitch. He needed to take a break.

Clutching his computer bag tightly to his side, Harold stopped at the darkest spot between two street lights and leaned back against the fence. He used to feel like this after a five-mile run - all spent and tired. Now, speed-hobbling a five block distance was all that it took - probably less considering that this latest "run" had been substantially fueled by adrenalin. Nothing like flying bullets and being pursued by men who were most likely determined to kill you to motivate a high performance.

Harold had trusted Mr. Reese's judgment and did not argue his suggestion to split up and to let him draw the attention of the men. He also trusted in John's abilities and skills, but it didn't stop him from worrying about his friend. 

He knew he wouldn't stop worrying until Reese sauntered into the library like he had just come back from the nicest walk. Neither of them would address the fact that he once again had put his life on the line without a second thought, and Harold would not admit that he'd been worried sick. Just business as usual.

His link to John's phone had been disconnected, and Finch didn't know if it had been deliberate or not. But knowing his employee's track record for destroying phones, his current device probably had met with an untimely end - although Harold refused to even entertain the thought that John might have as well.

If memory served him right he still had a couple of blocks to go before he'd leave the industrial area behind. Figuring it would attract less attention to call a cab from a busier place, Finch started to move again.

He had just taken a couple of steps when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Hoping to see that Mr. Reese was calling to re-establish their connection Harold stopped, pulled out the device, then hesitated.

It was John calling alright, but it appeared that he was sending him a request to view a video stream. Strange.

Finch accepted the request with a feeling of dread. First he saw only a pair of dark leather shoes starkly illuminated by white-blueish LED light. Then he heard a voice - which he recognized as Michael Mercer's from the conversations Mr. Reese had had with their Number over the previous days - saying, _"We're online!"_

That man having John's phone didn't bode well at all, and where Finch had been sweating just a minute before, chills were now running down his spine.  
When John's bloodied and bruised face appeared on the screen Harold gasped, "Oh no."

_"I've got your friend,"_ Mercer said, as John winced and looked away. _"I want that file back."_  
The video shook, changed in perspective, and a gun pointing at Reese's head appeared in the frame. _"You've got thirty seconds."_

Finch froze. He stared at the feed, at the profile of John Reese's calm face. There was not a single emotion on the man's face. Harold's mind was racing. He knew that John expected him to do nothing - to accept the inevitable loss of an asset, shrug it off and go home. And realistically there was nothing he could do. Even if he returned to the docks and handed over the file he doubted Mercer would just shake hands with them and let them go.

But he could still buy John time.

When Finch finally broke his paralysis Mercer had already reached the final third of his countdown. His fingers flew over the display of his phone - the fear that he'd made his decision too late caused his hands to tremble. "C'mon."

_"Five ... Four ... Three ... Two ..."_

"Wait!" 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

John Reese was livid. He considered Harold Finch to be one the smartest men - if not THE smartest - he had ever met, but at the moment he'd like nothing more than to shake the older man, and berate him for his foolishness. God, what the hell had Finch been thinking?

Reese was still kneeling on the cold and uneven asphalt at the waterfront with his hands tied behind his back. But he had lost his appreciation of the view of the sparkly New York skyline the moment Finch had stopped Mercer's countdown, the desperation so painfully obvious in his voice.

The position he had been in for the last twenty minutes was becoming more and more uncomfortable. Pebbles were digging into his knees, and his hands had started to go numb a while ago. 

"Looks like your friend has changed his mind," Mercer said, after a very prolonged moment of silence. He'd been impatiently checking his wrist watch every two minutes since Harold had agreed to return to the docks with the file. In all honesty John truly hoped that Finch had indeed changed his mind. Maybe if Shaw had not been out of town there would have been a possibility of a successful extraction. They were pretty exposed, and those stacks of shipping containers around them were an ideal hiding place for a sniper. However even with a quick shot at the rifle - which he knew Shaw was - it would still be a risky undertaking. Too risky for his taste.

"Hey," Mercer pushed Reese from behind, "I'm talking to you." John was about to reply with a remark that he knew would only incense the man even more - he was just in that kind of mood. But instead they both turned to look in the direction one of the remaining two goons had drawn their attention to. Mercer's other two guys were returning from their lookout post, and between them they were escorting a decidedly timid-looking Harold Finch - wide-eyed and ashen-faced. They let go of Harold and pushed him ahead of them, causing the handicapped man to trip forward. 

John raised an eyebrow in silent disapproval when Finch's and his eyes met, but he noted with some satisfaction the absence of Harold's computer bag. The man seemed to have retained at least some common sense. 

"You got my file?" The men who'd been escorting Finch both shook their heads. "He didn't have it on him."

Mercer's free hand balled into a fist. It seemed he was starting to lose his patience. He turned to face Finch. "Where's my file?"

Taking a step forward and clasping his hands together in front of him, Harold's demeanor turned businesslike. "It's at a safe place, I assure you Mr. Mercer. Unfortunately, we haven't had a chance to discuss the terms of the exchange."

"'The terms of the exchange?" asked Mercer perplexed. "What do you mean by 'the terms of the exchange'?"

"Well," Finch took another step forward, "as it stands, you want something that is in my possession, and I'd like to acquire something that is in yours. I'm sure that if we meet halfway we both can get what we want. By agreeing to meet with you here I have already shown you a sign of my goodwill. I'm hoping that you'll extend me the same courtesy."

Mercer rubbed a hand across his chin. "Goodwill, huh?" he said, also taking a step closer to Finch. Reese tensed, but the hand of one of Mercer's men on his shoulder rendered him practically immobile. "I'll show you some goodwill."

Before Finch had a chance to step back - out of their Number's reach - the latter swung the hand holding his gun at the millionaire's head. Its butt connected with Harold's temple with a crack, causing him to spin in a semi-circle before dropping almost unstopped to the ground. He might have blacked out for a second, although Harold wasn't sure. He lifted his face off the asphalt, and pushed his torso off the ground. 

Something warm and sticky was running down the side of his face, and even though his sight was blurry - which hopefully was only due to the fact that his glasses had gone flying when he hit the ground - he could make out the crimson drops of his blood on the asphalt in front of him. He fumbled for his frames, and only heard John grunt in pain as the man holding him down put an end to his struggles by bringing the butt of his gun down on the base of the ex-op's skull.

When Harold found his glasses the world thankfully de-blurred again, and he found Mr. Reese lying dazed on his side, slowly blinking his eyes. Mercer was standing above John with his gun pointed at his head. "The 'terms of the exchange'," he spat, "are as follows. You tell me where the file is or I'll shoot this son of a bitch."

Although Finch's head was pounding, the cut at his hairline stinging like mad, and his heart was trying to burst out of his ribcage he forced himself to appear calm. "If you shoot him," he said, panting through the pain, "you will never learn the whereabouts of that file. And I assure you, it will be in the hands of the police by tomorrow morning."

Locked in a staring contest for what felt like hours, Harold didn't dare breathe. Eventually the other man's eyes narrowed. "Well then," he said, and uncocked his gun. "I guess we'll have to find a different method of motivation to get you to talk."

Exhaling in relief Finch sunk back onto the asphalt. His eyes met John's. The ex-op was not happy, that much was clear, and Finch tried to convey to his employee that things were going according to his plan. Sort of.

"Take these two clowns," ordered Mercer, and both prone men were roughly pulled to their feet and dragged towards the office building. 

Neither of them was particularly curious about finding out about that 'different method' their Number had in mind. 

_To be continued ..._


	3. Chapter 3

Finch and Reese had been led to a room way - way - in the back of the building. It was devoid of all furniture, and the two chairs they were currently tied to had to be dragged there from somewhere else. Harold had a suspicion that the barren concrete floor and walls were probably easy to clean, and that they were not the first nuisances that Mercer had dealt with here.

They'd been sitting in silence side by side since Mercer and his men left to gather whatever they thought they needed to make them talk. And even though Harold tried to appear calm he knew he was failing miserably at hiding his nervousness. The men probably thought he'd be easy to crack, but Harold Finch's resolve had been underestimated before...

Harold's eyes roamed over the room for the hundredth time, as an excuse to throw sideway glances at Mr. Reese.

If there ever had been a statue of silent rage, John Reese was it. He hadn't moved a muscle since they'd been tied to the chairs, stoically staring ahead and emanating disapproval in nearly palpable waves.

"You are angry," Finch eventually said, twisting his upper body as best as he could with his arms tied to the armrest to face the other man's profile. As a response Reese's nostril flared and his jaw muscle flexed, then - still staring ahead - he said, "You should have stayed away."

Harold had heard that same quiet, cold and intense tone of voice directed at him only once before - when John had ordered him to get out of the car during the Marshal Jennings case. And just like it had done back then, it chilled him to the core. But he wouldn't back down this time. "He was going to shoot you," he said with maybe just a little bit too much incredulity at how Reese seemed to so easily overlook that tiny fact. 

John's head turned slightly towards Harold. Still he kept his gaze downcast. "You shouldn't have come back."

"You mean I shouldn't have come back for _you_?" There was definitely incredulity and also a healthy dose of anger at Reese's insistence that his life was worth less than everyone else's in Harold's voice this time. 

They'd been working together for over two years now, and Finch thought they had been over this topic already. But apparently not. "I ...," he trailed off with a humorless laugh. Reese turned to stare ahead again, and Harold shook his head. 

How could that man just ignore that people - and not just him, but Detective Fusco, Ms. Morgan and Ms. Shaw - well, maybe - cared about him. That he'd be missed? "You know John," continued Harold - calmer now. "You keep talking about how there are some people the world can't afford to lose. Well - and I know you don't want to hear this - but you _are_ one of them, too." 

At that Reese closed his eyes and turned his head away from Finch completely, but not before the older man had seen pain travel across the younger man's face. "John, look at me," he said with determination, waiting for his friend to heed his request. "Look at me!"

Finally Reese turned his head. He still refused to look directly at Harold, but it was close enough. "I'm not like your former employer. And while Ms. Shaw might be able to replace the 'Man in the Suit', she can't replace _you_." Harold paused, letting his words sink in. Then he said, "You are more than just my employee - you are my friend. And I will always come back for you, John. Whether you like it or not. _Always_."

Reese continued to stare ahead, and it seemed to Finch that everything he had just said in his uncustomary outburst of emotion had bounced off that thick ex-CIA-agent-head. But then John nodded, just so minutely, and finally turned to look - actually _look_ \- at Finch. "Okay. What's your plan then? Besides us getting matching bruises?"

Finch couldn't stop a small smile from tugging at his lips, which disappeared as soon as his thoughts went to his plan. He mentally winced. "Well, Ms. Shaw is on her way back, and until then we'll have to buy time."

John's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "That's your plan? We wait?" 

And this time Harold did wince. "In a nutshell?"

Reese hated for Harold to be here, in this situation, but he'd come to accept that it had been the other man's choice. A choice he'd soon regret - of that John was sure - but he would try his hardest to get Harold through this. Facing forward he said, "I have a feeling it's going to be a very unpleasant wait." He threw Harold a sideways glance, and he noted that the nervousness was back on the recluse's features. But he needed Finch to hear what he had to say. "Harold, the moment Mercer gets what he wants we're both dead. So, whatever happens ..." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. Harold swallowed hard, and nodded.

Whatever happens... 

 

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is short, and I'm sorry about that. But I really felt that this scene needed to stand alone before ... well, you'll see ;)


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn't long before Mercer returned with two of his men. Harold's heart was hammering in his chest and the palms of his hands were sticky with sweat. Mr. Reese on the other hand looked like he couldn't care less about what was going to happen next. Finch knew that he looked like the perfect target - the one most likely to break and to give in. That's why he was surprised when Mercer's men went towards Reese instead. 

So far not a single word had been spoken, and even though Harold recognized the threatening silence as an intimidation tactic, he couldn't deny its effectiveness. The metal legs of the chair John had been tied to scratched across the concrete floor as it, and its occupant with it, was turned 90° towards Harold. Only being able to hear the footsteps of the men behind him, Finch startled when his chair suddenly tilted backwards and pivoted around on its two remaining legs. The two captives were now facing each other - their knees only maybe eight inches apart.

Harold startled again, this time at the sound of tearing duct-tape behind him. The man with the role of tape stepped around and walked over to stand behind Mr. Reese. Tearing off a piece of tape he proceeded to cover the ex-op's mouth, forcing John's head back in the process.

Mercer - who had been leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest while keeping a careful eye on the scene - pushed himself off of the wall. His men stepped back, giving him room to circle the two tied up men like a hungry hyena circling its dying prey. 

Harold felt Mercer's presence behind him, could smell the cold cigarette smoke on his clothes. Suddenly warm hands dropped on Finch's shoulder, and he flinched at the touch. "Alright," said Mercer. He was massaging Finch's shoulders, and Harold had to fight the urge to attempt to squirm out from under his touch. "Now that we are in a more suitable surrounding, let us try this again. First of all, what may I call you? I don't think we've been introduced. And I do like to know the names of the people I torture."

Harold's mind was a complete blank, except for the word _torture_ echoing through his skull. Of course he'd known all along that it would eventually come to this, but so far he'd managed to not let his mind go there.

Mercer bent forward after Finch had failed to supply him with an answer. He spoke right beside his captive's ear - his breath uncomfortably tickling the sensitive skin. "You do have a name, don't you?"

Harold swallowed despite his dry mouth. With wide eyes he stared at John Reese, silently asking what to do. 

"Tony," Mercer said, and one of the two men stepped up beside Mr. Reese, grabbed a hold of his right hand and bent his pinky finger back as far as he could without breaking it. John's nostrils flared as his breathing intensified. 

"Harold!" Finch blurted out in panic. "My name's Harold."

"There," said Mercer and jovially patted the millionaire's shoulders. "That wasn't that difficult, was it?" Harold sank back against the chair's backrest. His confidence that he could do this was slipping farther and farther away with each second. Mercer gave his man a nod, which Harold couldn't see. With a quick jerk he snapped Reese's finger like a twig before Finch even knew what was happening. John grunted in pain, pressed his eyes together and did his best to ride out the waves of agony in silence. When the pain reached bearable levels John opened his eyes, and fixed his glare back on Mercer. The man only smiled at him, but finally let go of Finch.

"Why did you do that?" Harold asked appalled. "I told you my name."

"Because I could," their Number said as he walked into the programmer's peripheral vision. "And to make you understand that I'm not joking around." He stopped to stand behind Reese, and Harold's heart skipped a beat from its hammering staccato when he pulled out a switchblade - making a show of flipping it open. "Where's my file, Harold?"

Finch's eyes were transfixed on the shiny blade looming over his friend's head. He could feel John's eyes on him, and tore his gaze off the knife. He was faltering in his resolve, Harold was aware of it. And so was Mr. Reese. Their eyes met - Harold's wide and panicked, John's calm and assertive. The ex-op shook his head ever so slightly. _Whatever happens..._

Visibly pulling himself together Finch straightened as much as he could in his chair, and rose his gaze to their tormentor's in defiance. Mercer pulled John's head back by his hair - exposing the flesh of his neck. Pressing his knife to the exposed skin hard enough to draw a few droplets of blood - with Reese's only reaction a quick flutter of his eyelids - he stared at Harold, as if he was daring him to make him prove his seriousness. 

"You kill him, you will get nothing," Harold threatened - surprising even himself at the steadiness of his voice. "And I'm sure the police will find the contents of that file very ... enlightening."

The staring contest continued for another twenty seconds, which felt like an eternity to Finch, but neither man seemed to be willing to back down. Eventually Mercer straightened and the knife thankfully lifted off John's throat. "I see. Apparently we won't get anywhere with this approach.

"Tony. Scott. Would you please turn our friend's hands around," he said while patting Reese's head in mock-affection. It didn't take them long to untie John's hands one by one to expose the underside of his wrists before securely tying his arms back to the armrests. 

The hand with the broken finger throbbed mercilessly - especially after being manhandled once more - and even though the room was more on the chilly side John could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. 

"Let's see how watching your friend slowly bleed to death might help you change your mind."

"Don't," begged Harold as Mercer brought down his knife on his partner's wrists, causing him to still his movements before the skin was broken. He looked at Finch expectantly. "You gonna tell me where you've hidden my file?" Finch held his gaze for a few seconds, but then averted his eyes. 

From John's quickening breathing, Harold knew that the knife was slicing through his friend's flesh. Looking up he saw blood welling up from a two inch cut from Reese's left wrist towards his elbow, and he could literally feel his own blood draining from his face as his stomach churned with nausea. 

Finch stared in horror as the first drops of John's blood started to drip down to the floor, and forced himself to tear his eyes off the grisly sight. He felt a mixture of admiration and fright at Mr. Reese's unnaturally calm demeanor. With his eyes hooded he almost looked like he wasn't all there, and only his eyelids fluttered as Mercer's knife cut through his flesh a second time. He never made a sound. 

Stepping back Mercer regarded his handiwork with a satisfied smile. He pulled out a tissue from his pocket, wiped John's blood off the tip of his knife and said, "You can still save your friend. It's up to you, Harold." He paused to give Finch a chance to react. "Yell if you change your mind." The three men left, closed and locked the door behind them. 

Being left to their own devices Harold felt that he was losing his battle to keep the panic at bay. "John ... oh God." Blood from both of Reese's wrists was freely dripping onto the floor - starting to form small puddles. Finch was getting close to hyperventilating and he felt like he was going to be sick. "I don't think I can do this," he said. However one look at John made it clear what the other man thought about giving in. 

Harold knew that he needed to calm down, and he forced himself to take a couple of slow, deep breaths. Swallowing down the rising panic as best as he could, he nodded and tried to reassure himself. "Okay. Ms. Shaw is on her way. All we have to do is wait." He paused and took in the sight of the man - his friend - in front of him. 

John's skin was already starting to pale, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. The swollen pinky finger of his right hand stuck out at an unnatural angle and had turned a dark blue. Harold knew that in a while John was going to go into hypovolemic shock, which - as he remembered from his reading after the first time John Reese had nearly bled to death on the backseat of his car - occurred when the volume of the circulatory system is too depleted to allow adequate circulation to the tissues of the body. He didn't know how long it would take but eventually his friend was going to pass out and ... die. 

And there was nothing he could do about it but watch. "This plan sucks, doesn't it?"

John closed his eyes at Harold's rare use of a colloquialism and nodded. It sucked indeed. But on the positive side this was going to buy Harold time. He had no doubt that Harold Finch was the bravest man he'd ever met. There he sat, obviously scared out of his mind, but somehow rallying up enough strength to defy his fears. He had seen men with years of training break at the hand of skilled torturers - sometimes even at his own.

They sat in silence, while John concentrated on his breathing and deliberately slowing his heart beat down. He didn't know how much time passed, but eventually Reese could feel the only all-to-familiar symptoms of blood loss setting in. Despite his efforts his heart rate was elevated, and his skin felt cool and clammy even though he was sweating. He knew that everyone had a breaking point, and if he didn't want Finch to find his he had to hold on long enough for Shaw to get there before Mercer and his men turned their attention to the man across from him. Even if it was the last thing he ever did. 

Experimentally moving his jaw, John hoped that his clammy skin and the blood from his split lip had by now reduced the adhesiveness of the tape that covered his mouth. Sure enough he could feel the edges of the tape start to ease off his skin, and he started to rub his face against his shoulder. The tape indeed began to peel off. John had to pause a few times in his efforts as his increased exertion tired him out more quickly than he liked. 

When the tape finally came off completely Reese leaned his head back, and just breathed through the dizzy spell. The headache that had never really gone away was now in full force again and he had to fight to calm his stomach down.

Literally feeling Harold's worried gaze on him, John figured that with everything that had happened this night he probably already looked like death warmed over. Although Finch wasn't that far off from that look either. The area where Mercer had hit him with the butt of his gun was swollen and a pretty colorful bruise had already formed around it. The dry blood that still caked the side of Harold's face stood in stark contrast to his unhealthy pallor. "How're you holding up, Finch?" he asked.

"How am I holding up?" replied Harold dryly and just a little incredulous. "Well, just fine. Thank you for asking. How about you?"

John shrugged and smirked. "I've had better days."

Finch blinked - the levity Reese was going for obviously not hitting its mark. He looked to the side, breaking eye contact, and shook his head. "I'm so sorry, John. This is -"

"Harold," interrupted Reese before Finch could start attributing blame. "It's not your fault." For a second the computer genius looked like he wanted to argue that point, but instead drew in a shaky breath then nodded. "Maybe I could buy some more time if I pretended to lead them to where I hid the file?"

John shook his head. For one, he didn't think that Mercer had any intention of keeping his word, and he also didn't want Harold to draw the focus onto himself. Not yet anyway. "It wouldn't make any difference."

"I can't just sit and watch you die, John." Harold looked at Reese, and this time it was the ex-op who turned away. There was nothing he could say that would ease his friend's mind. He didn't want to die, but the more time that passed the more he could feel that his was running out. It was becoming harder and harder to stay awake.

"Why bird names?" John asked, the words slightly slurred.

"What?"

Returning his gaze to Harold's puzzled face, he repeated, "Why do you always choose bird names?" Finch stared at John - more than just a little taken aback by the sudden change in topic, and immediately recognizing it for what it was - a distraction.

Harold hesitated. He was painfully aware at the moment that - despite his initial intentions - he had let John Reese get closer than any other person since Nathan and Grace. That they certainly had come a long way from when he had even refused to tell the other man what he thought was good on a diner's menu in fear of giving away too much information about himself. But the true reasons - and the memories associated with them - behind his penchant for bird names were rather personal. Something he had never shared with anyone before - not even with Nathan.

John - who must have sensed his hesitation - averted his eyes, disappointed. "It's okay," he said softly. "You don't have to tell me."

They sat in silence after that, which only exaggerated the volume of John's short - almost labored - breaths, and Harold imagined that he could almost hear the blood drops hitting the floor. He couldn't stand it. 

"It was something my father and I used to do." Reese looked up at him, with a both surprised and questioning look on his face. "Birdwatching," Harold explained. "We used to spend hours outside. Just watching and naming the birds. My dad knew them all." Finch's eyes grew distant at the memory - a small, subconscious smile on his lips, which slowly faltered. "Even when he couldn't remember who I was anymore ... he still knew his birds..." he trailed off, lost in his memories. "I guess it's my way of remembering him." 

He looked back at John, expecting him to say something in response to his very private revelation. Instead Finch found Reese slumped in on himself, with his chin on his chest. He wasn't moving.

"John?" Harold asked alarmed. "John!"

 

_To be continued ..._


	5. Chapter 5

The bright headlights of the approaching car blinded Fusco as he looked in his rear view mirror. He'd been sitting here in his car in this God forsaken part of New Jersey for almost an hour now, waiting for Sameen Shaw to arrive. Lionel had known that he could say goodbye to any thoughts of a restful good night's sleep the moment his cell rang - the display announcing an _Unknown Caller_ \- almost two hours ago. However the thought of just ignoring it never crossed his mind.

The car parked behind him, and the headlights switched off. Blinking his eyes a few times in order to adjust to the darkness again, Fusco heard the car's door open, and with another check in the mirror saw the contours of a petite figure exiting the driver's side. Following suit the detective got out from behind his steering wheel. "Now're you gonna tell me what this is about?" he asked, forgoing any greeting. He'd done this secret-midnight-meeting-thing often enough now to know they weren't meeting for coffee. Or donuts. 

"Reese and Finch are in trouble," said Shaw in her customary flat tone. She turned and walked towards the trunk of her car. 

Fusco's eyebrows shot towards his hairline. "Both of them?" That the big guy had a penchant for getting into trouble Fusco had already been all too well aware of. Hell, the first time he met the guy Reese had been in trouble. But what he'd learned about that man since then was that he'd let hell freeze over before he'd willingly put Finch or any civilian in a potentially dangerous situation. Which meant things must have gone pretty wrong ... and what else was new? "What happened?"

"I don't have all the details," Shaw said, busy gearing up." But Reese and Finch went to the offices of a company owned by a Michael Mercer to collect some incriminating data. Reese got caught, Finch hid the files and voluntarily gave himself up to buy time. Now, lucky for them and us," she paused, jammed a clip of ammo into a MP7 and chambered a round, "the guys who grabbed them kept their phones." Which meant that Shaw had most likely been listening in to whatever had been going on - at least to some of it. She turned and handed Lionel a hand gun. "There are five hostiles. Just follow me."

Fusco took the gun and reflexively checked the clip. "What's the plan?"

"The plan is," Sam replied, slinging a black bag over one shoulder and grabbing the MP7 from the trunk, "to shoot anything that moves, grab our guys and get the hell out of there."

_"Shoot anything that ...,"_ Fusco repeated slightly dumbfounded. "You do know that I am a cop, right?"

"Yeah, but I've learned to not hold it against you." She flashed him her predatory smile, dropped the trunk lid, and tossed something dark and soft at him. "Let's go."

Fusco took a closer look at the object that he'd caught against his chest, unrolling a black balaclava. He sighed, then made to catch up with Reese's wonder-twin. 

The thought of saying _no way_ never crossed his mind.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fusco - now wearing the stuffy balaclava - followed Shaw deeper into the industrial area. They were carefully making their way through a maze of shipping containers - painstakingly sticking to the shadows - when Shaw held up her fisted hand. Apparently they had reached the end of the rows upon rows of containers, and a sprawling, open area lay between them and a sad looking office complex. She pulled out her cell phone and Fusco could see over her shoulder that the location of the two red dots on the digital map he assumed depicted Reese and Finch's phones coincided with the building in front of them. 

Fusco eyed the open space in front of them with unease. Anyone behind those windows could see them coming, and even though he couldn't see any cameras that didn't mean there weren't any. Or dogs. God, he hoped there weren't any dogs.

However - and he shouldn't really have been surprised - Shaw had come prepared. Out of her bag she pulled a thermographic camera, and Fusco briefly wondered how nice it must be to work for someone who was not dependent on public funds. The sweep with the camera revealed nothing but a few rodents, and Shaw gave the all clear. "It doesn't seem like they're expecting company." She exchanged the MP7 in favor of her SIG, checked the clip one more time and chambered a round. "I can't believe Reese let himself be captured by that bunch of amateurs."

They hurried across the open space, and - after making short work with the lock - practically walked right through the front door. The front room, with its counter and shipping advertisement displayed on the walls, was dark and quiet. However voices could be clearly heard coming from the back. Fusco and Shaw went around the counter and followed the voices down the hall towards a door where light could be seen shining through the cracks. As they took up position in front of the door the voices became clearer, and if it hadn't been for sentences like _"Do you think he's dead yet?"_ or _"I hope the gimp puts up a fight."_ Lionel thought he could have been listening in to a group of friends out having a good time. 

Shaw pulled out a flash-bang grenade and silently asked him with a look if he was ready.   
"You're gonna give them a chance to surrender, right?" whispered Fusco - gun at the ready. Shaw stared at him for a second, then pulled out the pin of the grenade and said, "Fine."

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harold Finch had no idea how much time had passed since he'd realized that Mr. Reese had lost consciousness. Ever since he'd been trying to rouse the other man, growing more desperate with each passing minute. "Mr. Reese? John!"

Harold looked down, only too late realizing that it was a mistake. He pressed his eyes closed, but the image of the two bright puddles of blood that had formed underneath John's chair had already burned itself into his retinas. He wasn't sure that John was still breathing. 

His breath hitched. It wouldn't be long now before they came for him.

His head snapped up at a loud _BOOM!_ from the other room, and people yelling. This could only mean ... "John! Help is here. You've got to hold on. Please!"  
A shot rang out startling Harold, followed by silence - although with his heart thumping in his ears as loud as a jack hammer Finch couldn't be sure the silence was complete. Suddenly the door burst open and a sturdy, masked man, wielding a - in Harold's eyes - large gun appeared in the door frame. Finch had expected to see Ms. Shaw, and for a devastating millisecond he believed that he had been wrong with his assumption that they were about to be rescued. But then their eyes met and Harold could see his shock mirrored in the other man's eyes. "Help him," Finch pleaded. "Please."

"Jesus Christ." Fusco ripped the mask off his head, turned towards the open door and yelled, "In here! I need help in here!"

The detective hurried over to where Finch and Reese sat still facing each other, and Harold could literally watch as the previously too bright red face of the detective turned white at the sight in front of him. "Jesus Christ," he repeated as he hovered over the unconscious form of John Reese, unsure of what to do. Before he could make up his mind he was pushed aside by Ms. Shaw. She immediately checked on Reese's pulse. It was there, but just barely and she cursed under her breath. His condition was worse than the last time he'd almost bled out going after Alonzo Quinn. Lucky for him this time she had come prepared.

"Is he dead?" Finch sounded like he expected the worst, and by the way things looked Shaw couldn't really blame him. 

"No." Both Finch and Fusco exhaled in relief. "Not yet," Shaw added, then ordered Lionel to help her get Reese out of that chair. "Here." She tossed him a package of gauze. "Wrap this around the cut as tightly as possible. 

Finch watched helplessly as the detective and Ms. Shaw bandaged John's arms in an attempt to stop the bleeding. His relief at hearing that Mr. Reese was still alive had quickly disappeared at the clipped tone of Ms. Shaw's voice. He had known her long enough to know that she was still worried. "He's going to be okay, isn't he?"

Shaw looked up at him, her expression not giving anything away. "He's lucky they didn't nick an artery or he'd be dead already." Finch swallowed. That information didn't help to appease his worry at all, but he didn't dare to press for a more definitive answer. Instead he remained silent and watched as Shaw checked Fusco's handiwork, nodding in approval. Then she pulled out a blood transfusion and a bag with clear liquid, which Harold assumed was a saline solution. 

"He's lost a lot of blood, and we need to get his blood volume up before we can move him." She turned to Finch again. "You really should consider investing in a blood bank. I can't keep on stealing from the hospitals at this rate." She actually sounded reproachful. "Good thing we still had some leftovers from last time." 

While Shaw worked to get the infusions going, Fusco took off his jacket, folded it and placed it underneath the unconscious man's head. It was the first time since John had passed out that Harold had gotten a look at his face. It was completely ashen, and the extreme pallor was set even more in contrast by John's hair - now completely blackened by sweat - and by Fusco's dark jacket his head rested on. 

Harold Finch was no stranger to death. He had seen his only friend at the time being blown up; he had witnessed John's predecessor being gunned down. He had also had to endure minutes - hours - of not knowing what had happened to Mr. Reese or now also Ms. Shaw when their connection had been lost on several occasions. And Harold had always felt that the _not knowing_ was the worst. But he had been wrong. 

Having to watch your friend suffer through pain and slowly bleed to death while not being able to do _anything_ about it ... 

"Did you get the file?" he asked with renewed urgency. If there was anything he could do, it was to make sure that Michael Mercer would not get a chance to do this to anyone else.

Shaw didn't look up. "No."

"Why not? I told you to get it, didn't I?" Fusco - who had been busy untying Finch - stopped what he was doing, surprised by the sudden outburst. But one look at the man - at the almost-as-white-face as Reese's and the wide eyes - and he knew that Glasses was still very much in shock. _Hell, who wouldn't be_ , he thought.

"Well," the female ex-op replied tersely and fixed Harold with a steely glare. "From what I could hear I figured getting to you and Reese _in time_ would be more important. Besides, Mercer doesn't need the file anymore." She took her eyes off Finch and focused on checking Reese's heartbeat. It seemed to be getting stronger. 

It took a moment for Harold to comprehend the meaning behind Shaw's words, and that single gun shot he had heard. "Oh." He swallowed. Again.

Finally free of his bonds Finch - with Fusco's help - got to his feet. "You alright?" asked the detective as the man slightly swayed. Putting a steadying hand on the chair's backrest, Harold took a second to breathe. His head was pounding, and the area where Mercer had struck him hurt like a bitch now that the adrenaline rush he'd been on was slowly subsiding. Truth be told he'd be shaking like a leaf if he were to let go of the little self-restraint he had left. Instead he mustered up a small, reassuring smile at the detective. "Yes, I'm alright," he said, but the doubtful look Fusco was giving him told him that he wasn't fooling anyone. He gazed down at John again, the smile disappearing from his features. "I've had better days."

"Alright." Shaw got to her feet. "I think it's time we got going." Thrusting the two bags - now already half empty - into Harold's hands, she and Fusco carefully picked Reese off the ground, and awkwardly managed to balance his tall frame between them. Shaw cursed. "Okay, no more donuts for this guy."

The going was slow, but Finch exhaled a breath of relief when he finally stepped out of that room. Outside he found Mercer's men tied up with duct-tape, blindfolded and unconscious - he hoped. Mercer himself lay on the other side, slumped against the wall with his gun still in his hand. There was blood spatter on the wall above him where Harold approximated their Number's head would have been, and that was more than he wanted to know about the man's death. 

It took them a good fifteen minutes to get to the cars. By the time they reached them Fusco was sweating and breathing heavily like he'd just run a marathon. "Tell me again why we didn't park any closer?"

He helped transfer Reese's limp form to the backseat, watched Finch and Shaw get in and drive away without so much as a backwards glance. He stared at the taillights - watching them grow smaller, then disappear - and sighed. "Yeah, you're welcome."

 

_To be continued..._


	6. Epilogue

There was just something soothing about a bar. Something calming. The dim lights. The smell of old wood and booze. The soft music in the background. The place could be packed with people and you'd still be alone. Alone with your poison of choice. Alone with your thoughts.

The place wasn't packed, which probably had something to do with the time of day. But a few forlorn souls had still found their way inside the place that was stuck in a perpetual gloom.

Fusco had chosen a stool, and was absent-mindedly twirling a crystal glass on the wooden countertop. He used to come here all the time, drinking away his discontent - first at his failing marriage, then at his own choices in life. He hadn't been here in ages, but today had felt like a good day to haunt his old haunting grounds.

He hadn't slept well. The memories from last night had prevented him from completely relaxing. As a homicide detective he had seen a lot of violent, gruesome and sick things, and he rarely lost some sleep over it these days. But it was something completely different when it happened to someone you knew. 

Last night had been yet another reminder of how quickly their fortune could run out. John Reese and Harold Finch had set him back on the straight and narrow; they had given him a chance to redeem himself and Lionel did not dare to think about what would become of him if their sometimes less than subtle guidance were to fall away again. Especially after he'd already lost his partner. 

He twirled his glass once more, and the almost melted ice cubes lazily sloshed around in the sparkly liquid. He recognized the person sitting down beside him by his uneven gait without having to look up. 

"Isn't it a little early for a drink, Detective?" Finch asked. His voice was back to its usual cultured timbre. No trace of the panic and worry from last night. That had been what had unsettled Lionel the most. The obvious look of shock and helplessness on the face of a man who he thought always had an answer. But Fusco had first hand experience what the mere threat of torture of someone you care about could do to you. The feeling of helplessness that overcame you was all-encompassing. 

He shrugged. "On some days it's never too early to have a drink." Finch, with his body twisted so he could look at Fusco's profile, raised an eyebrow at the detective's tone. Then - choosing not to point out that it was barely 10 am - nodded and faced the bar. "I'll have what he's having," he said to the barkeep, and Fusco took a sip from his glass. "Isn't it a little early for a drink?" he asked, deliberately echoing the man's words.

"It's ... one of those days."

Fusco chuckled. "Tell me about it." He went back to twirling his glass. "How's he doing?"

"He's resting. Ms. Shaw assures me he'll make a complete recovery."

"That's good to hear." And Fusco meant it. They sat in silence, while Finch waited for his drink. There was just one question nagging at Lionel's mind. He pivoted his stool, one hand remained on the glass and the other he propped on his thigh. "What are you doing here, Finch? Shouldn't you be - I don't know - saving the world, or somethin'?" 

Glasses didn't look at him. His hands were pushing a napkin around in front of him. "It appears the world doesn't need saving today."

Fusco regarded the man's profile, ignoring the cryptic remark like he usually did. Finch still looked a little pale, which only exaggerated the swollen and colorful bruise high on his temple underneath a neat row of butterfly bandages. There were dark circles around his eyes, telling Lionel that the Professor must have gotten even less sleep than he had. Most likely none. Fusco narrowed his eyes. "She threw you out, didn't she?"

Finch briefly turned his torso again, giving the detective a look that didn't quite yet reach annoyed but was getting there. The barkeep placed his order on a napkin in front of him, which Glasses accepted with a soft "Thanks", then pulled the glass towards him. "I can see why medical school did not work out for Ms. Shaw." He raised the glass. "Her bedside manners leave a lot to be desired," he said before taking a sip of the cool beverage. He grimaced, and turned to Fusco. "Club Soda?"

Lionel shrugged. "I don't drink. Not anymore." He sat forward again, cupping his glass with both hands. Turning his head the detective's and Finch's eyes met, and Lionel said, "I just never know who might be calling in the dead of night needing their asses saved."

Finch stared at him with that unreadable expression of his, and Fusco wrote himself a mental note to not ever play poker with the man. With any of them actually. Then Finch's lips slowly pulled up in a lopsided smile. "Thank you, Detective."

Fusco nodded and they both returned their attention back towards their glasses, enjoying a cool drink and relishing the quiet moment. 

Because they both knew that tomorrow all hell might break loose again. 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed this story. I feel like a complete idiot now, because at first I was hesitant (to say the least) to start posting, with thoughts of just deleting it crossing my mind.
> 
> I realize that the ending may seem for some of you to be a little abrupt. As I said, I was about to let this story collect virtual dust on my hard drive, and I really didn't think much of it. But thanks to the positive reaction I've gotten from all of you - which really helped to kick my Muse in the butt - I am considering to maybe work on a bonus chapter - if you want me to. Although I don't know how long it would take for me to get it done, since I'm currently having two other works in progress.
> 
> Again, thank you for reading!


	7. Bonus Chapter

Sameen Shaw almost sighed with content. After having 'persuaded' Finch to stop his worried hovering and to get some rest _somewhere else_ , she had successfully raided the safe-house's fridge. Now - certain that she wasn't going to be exposed to Harold Finch's glares of disapproval and armed with a full plate of hot chicken wings - she was about to enjoy a quiet morning, indulging in one of her secret Reality-tv guilty pleasures. There was something to be said about watching _Dancing with the Stars_ on the safe-house's big-screen. And in HD.

The only thing that was putting a slight damper on her rare perfect tv-session was that she hadn't been able to get Bear to join her on the sofa. No matter how many dog biscuits and chicken wings - and for that alone Finch would have gone into a fit if he'd still been here - she had enticingly waved at the Malinois, he wouldn't budge from his vigil at the sleeping Reese's beside.

It had indeed been a very close call, and Reese was one lucky bastard that she had had the foresight to come prepared. Otherwise all she and Fusco would have dragged out of that backroom would have been his slowly cooling corpse. Now, after two more blood infusions - which she had to once again steal from the hospital - John was stable and should be back to stalking the streets and buying her steak - make that _steaks_ \- after a couple more days of rest.

Throwing a clearly worried Finch out might have been a little callous, but the man had looked like he was about to keel over, and Shaw knew that he'd never get the restorative rest he needed by stiffly napping on a chair beside Reese's hospital bed. And ... who could blame a girl for wanting some peace too, after having once more saved the day?

How the boys had ever managed not to get themselves killed without her was absolutely beyond her.

The mountain of chicken wings had shrunken almost by half when Bear's high-pitched bark alerted her that something wasn't right. Reflexively drawing her gun, Shaw was at their make-shift medical area within an instant, finding an agitated Bear softly whining as he nervously danced from one paw to another. She didn't have to search long for the reason of the dog's behavior and tucked her gun in her waistband with an annoyed sigh. "What the hell do you think you are doing?"

Reese - who had managed to swing his legs out of the bed and rip out the IV-lines before his strength had apparently left him - shot her a confused look with red-rimmed eyes. "I thought I was getting up," he croaked, and Shaw watched almost with fascination as the little color that had returned to his complexion completely drained from his face.

"Yeah, I don't think so." Shaw decided to step forward to put a hand on Reese's shoulder - both for support and to coax her patient back into lying down - before he could topple over and face-plant on the floor.

"I have to stop him," John mumbled, trying to swat away Sameen's grip on his shoulder, although in his current state she doubted that the man would manage to pick up a feather.

"Stop who?" she asked.

Reese pinched his eyes closed - probably to shut out the light that Shaw knew must be hurting his eyes and head like a bitch if those bumps and bruises on his face and head were any indication. "He's going to kill Finch."

Realizing that he seemed to be still back in that room Shaw tightly gripped both of his shoulders. "John," she said, feeling his body start to tremble at the exertion of sitting up and fighting her. "Finch is safe. Mercer's dead."

He blinked at her with glassy eyes as his muddled brain slowly attempted to process her words. "Dead?"

"I took care of him."

"Finch?"

"Finch is fine," Shaw repeated and gently pushed him back, surprised to still find him fighting her. _Weak as a kitten ... yet still stubborn as a mule._ "You, on the other hand, need to rest."

Some of her words must have penetrated the fog surrounding Reese's brain, because he finally gave up the little resistance he'd been able to muster up and let himself be pushed back into the pillows. He turned his head to look at Shaw, his voice just above a gravely whisper. "Finch is okay? They didn't touch him?"

"No, they didn't touch him. He's okay," she reassured and began to inspect the damage John had done to the infusion site in his arm and sighed.

Fighting against the lead-weights that seemed to be dragging down his eyelids, Reese looked around - his eyebrows wrinkling in confusion. "Where is Harold?"

"He's not here," Shaw said without looking up from her efforts of getting the needle back into John's vein. _Obviously._

The confusion on her patient's face deepened. "He left?" John's head dropped back onto the pillow and his eyelids finally lost their battle against gravity. "He promised ... _always_ ..."

The last words were spoken so softly she almost didn't catch them, knitting her brows in puzzlement at their meaning and at the unguarded look of raw emotion that traveled across John's face before his features grew slack in unconsciousness. Shaw shook her head. She had no idea what was going through Reese's scrambled brain, and she was pretty sure she didn't want to know.

Finishing up with re-dressing the IV-site, she checked on the bandages around John's forearms. Satisfied that her patient was back to resting peacefully Shaw scratched Bear behind his ears and returned to the living room area to plop onto the sofa in annoyance. She'd missed the majority of her show and her chicken wings had grown cold.

_Great._

.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
.

Awareness returned slowly. At first there was only sound penetrating the darkness - a variety of noises that did not make sense. His brain took its time to assign each sound its proper meaning, but eventually he was able to discern between the ticking of a clock, the distant hum of traffic and the breathing of two individuals.

Instinctively John tensed. He did not remember what had happened - not yet anyway. But the odds were good that he'd managed to get himself caught on his latest mission and had passed out during 'interrogation'. He tried to remember, but he felt like having woken up from a bad dream with no memories - its vile aftertaste leaving him confused, agitated and feeling ... abandoned. _Get caught and you are on your own._ That was the agency's policy - he knew that, and he needed to pull himself together.

Smell registered next, and it wasn't right for some backwoods interrogation room. There was no stench of blood, no burned flesh, no sweat and no cigarettes. Instead it smelled of fresh flowers mixed with a slight note of disinfectant and men's cologne. Expensive men's cologne.

He wasn't lying on some dirt-covered, cold concrete floor either, but on soft, warm and - by the smell of them - clean sheets. Even before John really realized where he was, he instinctively knew that he was safe, and his body relaxed. The darkness became less complete and with the light his memories of the past couple of days returned. Slowly he opened his eyes, blinking a few times as they adjusted to the dimly lit room. The first thing John saw was the giant clock-face that leaned against the safe-house's wall. Whining softly, Bear nudged his left hand, licking his fingers until Reese lifted his hand and buried his fingers in his faithful dog's fur.

He turned his head. "I guess your plan worked after all, Harold," he said softly and smiled at his employer sitting patiently at his bedside. John was pleased to see that Finch's complexion had returned to normal. The last time he could remember seeing him the hacker had had turned as white as a sheet. His clothes - a three-piece suit, complete with a tie and a folded handkerchief in its breast pocket - were also back to their customary neatness, and John found this weirdly reassuring.

Finch regarded him for a few seconds, torn between feeling relieved, guilty and angry for what had been done to his partner. "Yes. Barely," he replied eventually, almost sounding bitter. It had been so damned close. Reese's smile faltered, and Harold grimaced, forcing himself to push the memories of last night to the farthest recesses of his mind. He leaned forward. "How are you feeling, John?"

Reese looked down at Bear's dark eyes as he pondered this question. He certainly had had better days, that was for sure. He felt weak, light-headed with a definitely noticeable headache, and the cuts on his forearms were smarting. But then he'd also had had worse days, and he knew that he should be back to normal within a few days of R&R. There was no need to worry the other man, as there was nothing Harold could do that would expedite his recovery.

"I'm fine," John said and knew immediately at Finch's raised eyebrows that the man wasn't entirely buying it. "Hungry, maybe," he added with an impish smile.

Harold stared at his employee, trying to decide if he should press for a more detailed answer or just accept Reese's verbal shrugging-off of yet another near death experience like he usually did. In the end John's still too pale face, the slight squint to his eyes, the softness to his voice and the fact that he hadn't tried to get out of bed yet told Harold Finch all he needed to know. Pressing his lips together he nodded, "I'm glad to hear that. I think Ms. Shaw left over some soup." He paused. "Would you like something to drink first?"

"Yes, please."

Harold got up and limped the short distance to the sideboard table to pour a glass of water. He returned to the raised head of the bed, handed Reese the glass and sat back down on the chair. He watched as the ex-op took a few sips of the cold liquid, and then placed it on the beside table.

"What's on your mind, Harold?" John asked.

Looking down at his lap Finch hesitated. He wasn't sure if now was the best moment to discuss what was on his mind, as Mr. Reese was clearly still very much in need of rest. But that also meant John wasn't able to just shrug off his concerns and walk away ...

"We need to discuss last night." He raised his eyes to John's face, whose eyebrows were wrinkled in confusion. "I want you to know," Finch continued, "that I meant what I said. That I would not leave you - or Ms. Shaw - behind."

John's features softened. "I know."

Harold nodded. _So far so good._ "However I need you to promise me something, John. I need your word that you'll give me a chance to keep my promise to you."

Reese's expression morphed from slightly curious to blank. "I'm not sure I follow."

"I know what's going on in that head of yours, John," Harold said, speaking faster now. "At least sometimes I think I do.

"Tell me you haven't decided to get yourself killed the next time you find yourself in a situation like last night. Before I've had a chance to figure something out."

John averted his gaze and turned his face away from Finch, letting him know that he'd been dead on with his assumption, which hadn't been far-fetched in the first place. Harold still remembered all too well how pissed off John had looked at seeing him on that rooftop over a year ago, going as far to even point a gun at him instead of letting him help.

Harold didn't want to argue with the injured man. They both weren't up to it yet. Or - most likely - never. But he knew if he didn't say what was on his mind now, he'd never say it. Exhaling heavily he slumped - as well as he could - into his chair. "You know what it means to lose a friend - someone you care about," Harold said softly, watching the other man close his eyes. "Trust me, it's much worse when you know you could have - _should have_ \- done something, but in the end all you did was just stand there and watch it happen." Finch paused, and his memories briefly went back to that dark and empty intersection - the place of yet another one of his failures that had nearly broken them all.

"I know that there will come a day where I won't be able to be there in time; where my plan won't work after all." He paused again, looking at John's impassive profile, and when he spoke again the softness to his voice was gone, replaced by a desperate edge. "Please, _don't_ force me to just stand by and watch. _Nothing_ could be worse."

Finch fell silent. He didn't expect an answer from Reese. They both weren't great with discussing personal feelings, but Harold had needed the other man to hear what he had to say and hoped that when - not _if_ \- the time came John would at least consider his request.

The ex-op continued to look down at his bandaged arms, avoiding eye-contact and most likely fighting the demons Harold knew had been tormenting the other man for years. Bear, who had picked up on the tension between his two humans, whined softly before he retreated to the end of the bed and miserably rolled himself up on the floor.

"I'm going to see about that soup," Harold eventually said and stiffly got onto his feet.

John watched Finch move out of the corner of his eyes. To say that he felt conflicted was a gross understatement. He'd known from the moment he met Harold Finch that the man was different to every employer or superior he'd ever served under, and it hadn't taken long for John to realize that he would gladly lay down his own life so that the other man might live.

He had been aware that Harold's and his initially strict work-relationship had grown into exactly the kind of friendship every commanding officer he'd ever had had warned him about.

_"You get too close to each other, you'll lose your focus on the mission and you'll end up doing something stupid that will get you - and others - killed."_

However their friendship had suffered a blow when they lost Detective Carter and due to his own actions afterwards. He'd been so angry and disillusioned, and busy with licking his own wounds that he'd never even given it a second thought that Finch had been there too that night. But compared to him the hacker had guarded his emotions like a mother bear guarding her cubs. He'd always done that, yet John had still distanced himself and not allowed himself to actually see the signs - that now were so damn obvious - that Harold had been shouldering the blame for what happened ever since and had been tormented by it.

Last night's events and all his training told Reese to increase the distance between him and Harold Finch. But as he watched the hacker's back slowly retreat John knew he couldn't do it. He had put _the mission_ before anything else, forcing himself to be alone in the dark for so long that he didn't want to let go of the glimpses of light he'd been able to see since he'd allowed himself to trust Harold Finch.

In the end he didn't care about the mission. He cared about this friendship.

"Harold," John called out softly, and Finch stopped. He turned around slowly, his face a careful mask of polite inquiry. "Yes, Mr. Reese?"

When John looked at Harold he deliberately dropped his carefully crafted expression that conveyed no emotions at all, wanting the other man to see his sincerity.

"You have my word."

Finch's face lit up in relief, and his lips twitched into a lopsided smile, sounding more than relieved. "Thank you."

John nodded. He certainly didn't know what the future held for the both of them - with new and unknown threats already lurking on the horizon. But no matter what, they'd have each other's backs, and John had to admit that knowledge felt damn good.

He smirked. "But seriously, you _have_ to work on your plans, Harold."

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long, and I hope this chapter did not disappoint. Thank you all for reading.


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